


I Have Measured Out My Life with Coffee Spoons

by rubygirl29



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Because I can, M/M, Schmoop, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky loves coffee almost as much as he loves the guy who own the coffee shop across from the Brooklyn Veteran's Center. But that's not the beginning of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Have Measured Out My Life with Coffee Spoons

**Author's Note:**

> No, I haven't forgotten I Didn't Know I was Lonely Until We Met. I started writing this because I needed time to think about what happens next, and it was Valentine's Day. It kind of took off. Enjoy!

Bucky's love affair with coffee began back in his freshman year of college when all he required was enough caffeine to get him through the sleep-inducing drone of his professor in the most boring Econ class in history. It's torture, and if not for the dreadful vending machine coffee, Bucky would have died of boredom … seriously. 

His father dies when Bucky's a junior, and if he wants to get his degree, he'll have to finance it himself. The war in Afghanistan is a constant buzz, and being in New York, he sees Ground Zero every day. He buys coffee at a fast food restaurant a block away from the WTC site and watches the slow rise of the Freedom Tower. He's pondering his future when he sees an Army recruiting officer in line at the counter. Bucky, always impulsive thinks _Why Not?_ He's young, in good shape. His dad had served a hitch in the Army, and finished his degree on the GI Bill. It sounded like a deal to Bucky, who is bored with his classes and with his life in general. Maybe it's time to break out and see the world.

He marches across the street and enlists. He doesn't say he's working on a degree in economic history. He puts on his broad Brooklyn accent and says he works at a filling station. True to a point … his dad had owned a repair shop and gas station, so he knows enough about how things work to convince the recruiter.

He's shipped off to basic in New Jersey; then, when he gets the highest marksman score the instructors have ever seen, they ship him off to Fort Benning, sign him up for Ranger School, where they teach him how to survive and how to kill. He thinks the war will be over by the time he gets there. 

It isn't. 

About the best thing he can say about the coffee at Bagram AFB, is that it's fresh, hot, and brewed 24/7. Most of the time there's a fine sediment of grit in the bottom of the cups, but that doesn't deter him. Out in the field, coffee is boiled up in a pot, the way soldiers have brewed it for three centuries. unfiltered grounds are added to the grit. The soldiers in his unit start calling him Caffie once they figure out his addiction. He has other nicknames; Killer, Ghost, and the Winter Soldier. Bucky prefers Caffie. He doesn't _like_ killing, but he's good at it, and he tries not to think of his targets as having family, friends, loved ones, but sometimes, he can't help wondering if they ever have a premonition that he's about to end their lives when he looks through the scope of his sniper rifle. 

He doesn't have a premonition the morning he gets into a truck with his platoon. No idea that there is something waiting for him. One minute, he's riding along, laughing at a lewd joke and drinking his coffee. 

The next minute, he's awake, in a hospital in Germany, minus an arm and a good portion of his memory. At least the coffee is good. 

He's shipped off to Walter Reed where the coffee is dreadful, but there's a coffee stand in the lobby. In the four years since Bucky's been away, coffee has become upscale, and too damn expensive. He can usually get one of the orderlies to wheel him down. Yeah, he's lost an _arm_ not the use of his legs, but they don't like him walking around, like they're afraid he'll topple over once he's off the ortho floor.) 

Then he meets Sam Wilson, his therapist. Sam is great. And once he discovers Bucky's sorry addiction, he always makes sure there's a cup of gourmet coffee waiting for Bucky when he has his sessions. Bucky knows he has 'issues.' He acknowledges that, but they're getting better, and if he still avoids looking below his neck in the mirror, who can blame him? 

Then one day Sam tells him that he's been transferred to a new Veteran's Center in Brooklyn. When Bucky can hardly speak, Sam says gently, "Hey, man, I'm sure the new therapist'll be good. Give 'em a chance." 

Bucky feels like the earth has been pulled out from beneath him. "Sure, Sam. But I bet he won't buy me coffee." 

Sam laughs. "You're okay, Barnes. You'll be alright." Bucky feels like he's so far from alright, that he'll never find his way back.

The new therapist is a putz. Sure, he's got degrees up the wazoo, and he displays them all on his office walls, but the one thing he's missing is the most important — his discharge papers. He's never served, never been in battle, and sure as hell hasn't had to kill anybody. 

After two sessions, Bucky signs himself out of the hospital and catches the train to New York. Two things have changed. The rents are sky high, and there is a Starbuck's on every corner, even in Grand Central Station. Bucky sips his Americano (seriously, how has he never had this elixir before?) and looks at the classifieds. He has his measly pension and disability, but that will get him a cardboard box in an alley according to what he's seeing. 

He buys a phone and calls the Brooklyn Veteran's center. He asks for Sam, and a moment later, Sam's cheery voice is in his ear. "How can I help?" 

"Hey, Sam."

There's a moment as Sam processes his voice. "Barnes? What's up? How's DC?"

"Sam, I'm in New York. I need help." Bucky's voice is a lot shakier and tentative than he intended. 

"Sure. Sure, umm … the thing is, I can't get away —"

"What's the address?"

Sam gives him an address in Brownsville. Then hesitates, "Where are you?"

Bucky sighs. "I'm in Grand Central at the Starbucks. I was born in Brooklyn, Sam. I think I can find my way."

"You sure? You don't sound so good."

Bucky grits his teeth. "I'm fine. See you soon." He figures out which train to take and sits with his maimed side to the window. With his jacket over his shoulders, he looks like any other guy, maybe a bit rough, but all in all, more or less okay. He tries not to let his leg jiggle with nerves and mostly succeeds, but when the door of the train finally open, he's the first passenger out the door, up the stairs and onto the street. He pulls the collar of his jacket up and focusing on the addresses, makes his way to the Veterans center. 

Sam is waiting on the steps of what used to be a storefront. There's still graffiti on the sidewalks and the front of the place looks a dingy with a few sorry plants in front. The sign is bright, though, with some cool graphics on it. Sam looks so proud that Bucky can't burst his bubble. "Looks good, Sam."

Sam laughs and hugs him, ignoring Bucky's suddenly stiff spine. "It looks like shit, but we'll get there."

"The sign is cool," Bucky says encouragingly. 

"Yeah, well we lucked out there. Come on inside."

"Got coffee?"

"I always do, and lucky for me, there's a coffee shop right across the street for emergencies. Funny thing is the owner's a veteran. He got some sort of entrepreneurial grant and took a chance on the neighborhood."

For the first time, Bucky looks across the street at an almost identical storefront, this one has a sign featuring a WWII soldier with his hands wrapped around a steaming mug. It's simply called "Java Joe." The graphics look familiar. "He did your sign?"

"Yeah, I go over and help out every now and then."

"Hmm."

Sam must notice that Bucky's looking a little white around the eyeballs, so he takes a breath. "Want to get some of that joe?"

"Sounds good."

They cross the street. Inside, the coffee shop is cool and calming with cream colored walls and sage green trim. The tables are old bistro-style wrought iron bases with pale wood tops and the booths are sage green vinyl. The aroma of roasting coffee permeates the air. 

"C'mon, I'll introduce you to Steve."

Bucky doesn't see anybody behind the counter until they're almost there, then a blond head, the broadest shoulders he's ever seen, a waist like a girl's, and an ass that is total perfection. (Yeah, Bucky's an ass man and this one is spectacular,) rises slowly from a crouch. The guy turns around and Bucky is looking at a face that would make the angels sing. Blue, blue eyes, high cheekbones, perfect plump lips and ridiculous eyelashes. The slight bump on his nose only highlights the perfection of the rest of his face.

His smile is blinding. "Hey, Sam." He wipes his hands on a towel. "Who's your friend?"

"Steve, this is James Barnes. James, Steve Rogers."

They appraise each other. Steve doesn't look away from Bucky's empty sleeve. "Army?" He asks. 

Bucky nods. "Sergeant. Rangers."

"I served with the 107th. What can I get you?"

Bucky looks at the prices and decides, "Just coffee, black and extra hot."

"A man after my own heart," Steve says, and immediately blushes. 

Bucky's breath catches in his throat, and he looks at Sam who is gazing around the shop, trying to avoid both of them. "Sam?"

"The usual."

"You got it. Go, sit. I'll bring it out." 

Bucky and Sam sit in one of the cozy booths and watch the world go by. Bucky looks around. "He needs more customers. How long has he been open?"

"Just a few weeks. Once we start getting clients, it will be good for him, too." He breaks off when Steve comes over with their coffee. It smells like heaven. Bucky takes a sip, and nearly moans. It's perfectly hot, perfectly roasted, with a hint of spice and flowers in the notes. 

"I think we ought to keep this our little secret," Bucky says, his voice serious, but his eyes bright and Sam thinks he's never seen this lightness in him before. 

"Man, you really do love coffee," Sam chuckles. "And don't even pretend that you didn't notice Steve."

"Of course, I noticed. I lost an arm, not my sight."

Sam takes a sip of his coffee closes his eyes. "It is kind of a religious experience."

Bucky agrees, but he's thinking more about the barista than the coffee. He'd die before he let Sam know that, though. They talk, Bucky giving up more than he's done in a while — his fears and nightmares, how he always, _always_ dreams that he's whole.

Sam listens and when the light starts fading, he says. "Listen, have you got a place to stay?"

"Not high on my list of priorities. Maybe the Y?"

Steve has been wiping up tables, waiting on the few customers who stop in, and trying his damnedest not to listen in to their conversation. He pauses. "Umm, there's a studio apartment upstairs," he offers, "If you need a place for a few days."

Bucky looks startled. "What?"

Steve's ears are pink at the edges, which Bucky finds adorable. "A studio, upstairs. It's not much. Just a futon to sleep on, and a microwave. But it has a shower with lots of hot water. And the price is right. Free for a fellow veteran. And all the coffee you can drink, on the house."  
Bucky shakes his head, "No, man, I can't …"

Sam stops him. "Thanks, Steve. You're a lifesaver. Barnes, don't be an idiot. Take the offer."

Bucky knows when he's out-numbered and out-gunned. "Okay. Thanks. Really, thank you. I'll try not to drink the joint dry."

Steve's laugh hits Bucky like a punch to the solar plexus, driving his breath away. How is this guy even real? 

"I'll pay you back rent when I get a job."

Sam clears his throat. "About that … I was thinking we could use somebody like you to work with the vets who've gone through traumatic amputations."

Bucky looks at him like he's been offered a seat on the first Mars mission. He gives a short, bitter laugh. "You want to hire a guy with serious PTSD issues over his own missing limb to counsel other guys with the same problems? That's the blind leading the blind." 

Sam speaks slowly, like he talking to a six-year old. "That is why I think you can help. By the way, I didn't say 'counsel.' I said work with — listen to them, give them information about prosthetic programs funded by the VA —"

"I don't have one," Bucky says. He feels his cheekbones burning with an embarrassed flush. 

"There you go," Sam says. "There are guys out there who don't want or can't use a prosthetic, but sometimes family and friends are their worst enemy, pushing them into programs that might not be right for them — and they go, because they want everybody to feel better, to not feel so sorry for them."

Bucky's mouth sets in a stubborn line. "I'm not sure I can do that."

"Fine, we'll find another job, then. We need somebody at the front desk. I think having a veteran there will put them more at ease."

"Sam, I don't need _saving_."

"Fine, but you don't have a job right now, probably will have a hell of a time finding one without further training in _something_."

Bucky slumps in his chair. "Sam … "

Steve returns to the table and pulls up another chair. "Sorry, I couldn't help overhearing. "As a veteran I'd be more likely to feel at ease with another vet welcoming me. I think Sam's right."

"Fine. Not full time, though." Bucky tries to think what will be enough to make it worth Sam's time and still give him time to fight off his own demons. He's not stupid. He knows he will be putting himself in a situation that might trigger his own trauma. "Four hours a day?"

"That isn't gonna pay the rent," Sam says. 

"I'll work something out," Bucky says, knowing that Sam is right. He can't end up on the streets. It's autumn, warm enough for now, but the winter would kill him. 

"Tell you what," Steve says. "I need somebody to help at the register, clean up, do the roasting. I can't afford full time help, but the apartment's yours for free if you take me up on my offer."

"I can't — with rents as high as they are, you could get a lot more."

Steve wrinkles his nose, which nearly does Bucky in, "You haven't seen the place. Anybody taking it might not be the kind of person I want living over my shop."

"How do you know I'm not one of them?" Bucky asks, curious. Steve doesn't know him, doesn't have a clue as to what kind of guy he is, what his PTSD issues are, whether or not Bucky will be triggered into a violent episode. Not that it's likely, but Bucky was trained as a killer, was good at it, and it could be something in him that might escape.

"I don't, but I don't think Sam would have brought you here and introduced us if he thought you were a danger to yourself or anybody else."

Bucky tilts his head. Steve is right. He's never been suicidal, and never given to going for a gun. He's just slightly agoraphobic, bitter, and with a tendency for migraines and panic attacks. Yeah, he's a mess, but he's getting better. Maybe.

"How about a two week trial?" Steve asks. His blue eyes are sympathetic. "Would that be okay?"

Bucky considers. Two weeks … he can do two weeks. He holds out his hand. "Thanks. Let's do it."

Sam is smiling broadly as Bucky's hand is engulfed by Steve's. "We've got this, Barnes. Right?"

Bucky, who really, really likes the way Steve is holding his hand, nods. "Sure, Sam. We've got this." 

There is a sudden influx of customers seeking their three o'clock caffeine fix. Steve releases Bucky's hand. "I've got to get back to work. Can you come back at six? I close at 5:30."

"Umm. sure." He glances at Sam. "Want to show me the center? Teach me the ropes?"

"You bet." He hands Steve more than enough money to cover their bill, but waves off his attempt to make change. "Keep it, man."

Back at the center, Sam shows Bucky how to answer the phones, transfer calls, and page. There's an appointment book for Sam and the other therapist, Sharon. That's about all Bucky can do today, and there aren't any calls this late in the day. Bucky doesn't delude himself into thinking it will be like this all the time. 

Sam shows him how to lock up and set the security alarm when they close. "You'll be okay with Steve?"

"Sure." Bucky's brow furrows. "How much of this did you plan ahead of time?"

"What?"

"You and Steve. The job, the apartment … everything?"

"Man, I'm flattered you think I'm capable of such subterfuge."

"Sam, I know you're capable of a lot of things, so don't try to bullshit me."

Sam sighs. "Okay, I thought about the job here, and Steve told me about the apartment a few weeks ago when he heard me griping about my place bein' painted." He sighs, "Steve's a great guy, generous to a fault, and too trusting for his own damn good. I think you'll get along just fine."

Bucky doesn't know how to reply, so he just makes a non-committal hum, and follows Sam across the street. Sam hands Bucky the rucksack he was carrying. Bucky's worldly possessions are in that sack and the gym bag he has slung over his right shoulder. "You don't need me here, right?" 

"Hot date?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. You are okay with me leaving? I mean, you've met Steve, and he's a friend, so …

Bucky, feeling only slightly cast adrift nods. "Sure, Casanova. I'm a Ranger, I think I can take care of myself."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Steve is polishing the surface of his already gleaming coffeemaker when Bucky knocks on the door. Rogers gestures him in and the knob turns, the door opens."Trust much?" Bucky asks as he kicks his gym bag through the door. 

"I figured you'd be punctual." Steve sets his rag down. "I'd ask if you needed a hand, but that would be weird and probably rude."

Bucky's eyes widen and he burst into laughter. "I can't believe you went there!"

Steve's eyes crinkle. "I'm a firm believer in getting the awkward out of the way." He picks up the gym bag. "C'mon, I'll show you the apartment, but word of warning, don't let it overwhelm you." He gives Bucky a wry smile. 

"Umm. You gonna lock this door?"

Steve reaches around him, flips the deadbolt, and enters a security code in the alarm. "Okay?"

"I'll sleep better, if nothing else."

Steve grins easily. "This way…" They go down a narrow hall past the kitchen, to an equally narrow flight of stairs. They reach a landing, go up another three steps to the second story. Two doors, one right, one left. Steve takes out a set of keys and opens up the door on the right. He flips a light switch and Bucky steps inside. 

It's not as tiny as Steve had said, but it's not exactly big. Two narrow windows face the street with a view of the Veterans Center across the way. The furnishing are a futon with a brick red cover, a scarred coffee table, an end table with a reading lamp, and a bookshelf with a small flat screen TV on it, and an assortment of dog-eared paperbacks. 

Steve looks too big for the space, or maybe he's not used to sharing the space with somebody. The "kitchen" is in a nook with a dorm-sized refrigerator under a makeshift butcher block countertop set on bricks as supports. There is a microwave, a toaster oven, and a four-cup coffeemaker. Open shelves on the wall hold mismatched china, mugs, and glassware. Silverware is in a plastic florist bucket. 

"It's not much," Steve apologizes and runs a hand through his blond hair. 

"I been in worse places," Bucky replies. 

"Yeah, well … There's no cable, but the TV has a DVD player. There's a few movies on the bookshelf. And there's Wi-Fi. The bathroom is through that door. No tub, but the shower runs hot. With the winter coming on, it's plenty warm up here, but if you want AC, you'll have to open the windows."

"I'll be fine." He's rarely too warm. Winter in the Hindu Kush had settled in his bones and he hasn't been able to shake it. 

"I don't have any food up here," Steve says apologetically. "But there's a bodega down the street, and a taqueria if you like Mexican. The Vietnamese restaurant is around the corner and they have a _pho_ to die for."

"Let me buy you dinner, " Bucky says impulsively. "I've got enough cash for two dinners, and I owe you, really."

To his surprise, Steve blushes again, ears pinking at the tips. "Thanks, that would be…" He hesitates over the right phrasing. "Just, yeah. Sure."

"No war stories," Bucky warns.

"Nope. I can talk your ear off about the shop, though."

"Sounds like a plan."

They walk to the Vietnameses restaurant where they eat excellent _pho_ , and Steve talks about the shop, making the effort it took to start up a business sound lighter than it was, and about how he went to the CIA (culinary school) to learn how to bake and to Seattle to learn about roasting coffee. 

Bucky eats, and listens and laughs, all the while thinking that if Steve is straight, he's so fucked. Because this is in no way, shape, or form a _date_ even though it feels like one. 

Warmed by food, they walk back to the shop. Bucky is too conscious of the way Steve's shoulder brushes against his, the way their strides match. It feels like they've done this before. If Steve is aware of Bucky's attraction, he doesn't let it bother him. It's a big _if_. 

Bucky is surprised when Steve walks him up the stairs. "You know I'm not helpless, right?"

Steve's brow rises. He points to the door on the left. "I live there."

Bucky wipes a hand over his face hoping he's hiding his blush. "Of course you do." He is so, so _fucked._

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Java Joe's smells like heaven in the morning, even if the aroma of coffee wakes him up before it's light outside. He's supposed to be downstairs helping, so he does the five-minute military shower, toweling his hair dry and working it back into a clip. He dresses in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt before heading down to the kitchen. 

Steve is in flour up to his elbows. He looks up. "Hey, did I wake you up?"

"I-I thought I was starting work?"

"Today's Wednesday. You're at the Vet Center. They don't open until eight, so you've got an hour. You can sit and have coffee and I just took a batch of morning glory muffins out of the oven, so they're hot."

Bucky feels guilty about eating and not paying. "Just coffee."

Steve gives him a look. "Seriously, you need to eat, and I need a taste-tester. It's been a while since I made these and I put some dried figs in there, which I've never done before."

Bucky would tell him that he's a terrible liar, but the muffins are making his mouth water and his stomach is rumbling. "Okay."

Steve grins and wipes his hands off. He plates a muffin and give Bucky a plastic tub of mascarpone. When Bucky looks doubtful, he says, "It's better than butter on these, trust me."

Bucky spread the mascarpone on the muffin. He breathes in the aroma: Figs, honey, coconut, carrots, walnuts. He takes a bite and nearly falls off the stool. "Wow, these are amazing, Steve."

"Just a little something I whipped up." Steve leans against the counter. "Umm … you've got…" His hand cups Bucky's chin lightly as he runs his thumb across Bucky's lips. "Some mascarpone …" 

The moment is charged. Steve's pupils are dilated and his breath brushes Bucky's cheek. Bucky doesn't have the courage for this. He ducks his head, Steve wipes his thumb on his apron and backs away. Bucky can't decide if his heart is racing with anticipation, or because he dodged a bullet. Either way, he feels like he's lost something he might not get back. 

"Thanks for the muffin and coffee. I should get over there early." He pulls himself together while Steve puts a muffin in a bag and pours a cup of coffee, adding plenty of milk. 

"For Sam," he explains. "I'm sorry, I should have asked permission before moving in on your space."

Bucky blinks at him. "No, man. I'm okay with it — you — " He stumbles over his own words, shakes his head and waves goodbye to Steve as he heads out the door.

Sam is answering phones when Bucky comes into the reception area. It's really no bigger than a vestibule with a scarred roll-top desk and a creaky chair. There's a battered file cabinet in a corner, and an old-fashioned coat tree in the other corner. Sam finishes his call and grins. "I am glad to see you, brother."

"You do know this is my first day?" Bucky says, not a little apprehensive. 

"Easy, man. You'll be fine. Let me show you around." He walks Bucky through the phone answering procedure, the appointment book, how to handle emergency calls (basically transfer the call to Sam or the other therapist.) 

He shows Bucky the offices, the alarm panels, and a room kitted out as a doctor's office. "Do you have a doctor on staff?" Bucky asks, impressed.

"Part time. We don't keep any drugs stronger than OTC pain relievers, for obvious reasons. Bruce is basically here to help anybody with minor medical problems, from flu shots and strep throat to malnutrition and testing for STDs."

Bucky nods, understanding how important to have a safe place. There are plenty of soldiers who return to civilian life and lead productive, successful lives, but there are too many who don't, who live marginalized lives defined by PTSD, physical impairments, and traumatic brain injuries. He's one of the more fortunate veterans; his PTSD is mostly under control, he's only missing parts of his memory and an arm. Sure, the arm is a pain, physically and metaphorically, but he's dealing with it without narcotics or alcohol. 

Still, a panic attack is buzzing at the back of his mind when Sam leaves him alone at the front desk. They're not officially open, but the phone lines are, and Bucky nearly breaks for the door when the first one come is. His hand is shaking as he reaches for the receiver. "Brooklyn Veterans Center," he manages to rasp out.

The caller on the other end of the line asks if they help with mortgage loans. "Sorry, financial services aren't available, but we might be able to suggest —"

"Fuck you!" Followed by an angry hang up. 

Bucky stares at the receiver as if it had reached out and slapped him. "Okay … " He hangs up. 

A few minutes later the phone rings again, the same voice, this time with an edgy, nervous tone to it. "You don't help vets financially? What damn use are you?"

Bucky wants to laugh, but he doesn't and keeps his voice even. "Why don't you come in and talk to one of our counselors? They might be able to direct you to resources available to help financially."

This time, there is a long silence at the other end, then … "Sarge?"

"I was a sergeant," Bucky confirms. "Who is this?"

"My God, Sergeant Barnes! Who'd a thought it. Hey, it's me, Dum Dum Dugan. Man, I am so sorry I cussed at you."

Bucky's head hurts. "Dugan? I'm sorry, I don't — that bomb, it kinda scrambled my brain."

Dugan didn't say anything for a minute. "I get it, Sarge. Bet if you saw me you'd remember my ugly mug." There is another pause. "Sarge, how's the arm?"

"Arm? What arm?" Bucky tries to joke, but it comes out a lot more bitter than he intended.

"Geez, I'm sorry, Sarge. Guess I mighta guessed that since yer workin' at the center instead of in the field. You were the best, ya know."

Bucky hopes he doesn't mean his skill with a rifle. Not something he's exactly proud of — killing people. "Sure, c'mon in, Dugan. The mortgage thing, I'll ask around and see what we can do, How about coming in tomorrow?"

"Monday? I got a job interview tomorrow. Not the greatest, and it's seasonal, but it's outdoors. I'm not that crazy about bein' cooped up."

"There are people here who can help with that, too. So, Monday around …?"

"Ten is good."

"See you then, Tim." 

"Hey, Sarge! Ya remembered."

Bucky surprised, says. "Yeah. Yeah, I did." Maybe there's hope for him, yet.

The rest of the day passes with a few more phone calls, appointments, and a few drop-in neighbors curious about what going on. Not all of them are happy, and they tend to take it out on Bucky, who tries, he really does, not to play the sad, crippled veteran card, but one annoying couple irritates him so much that he can't help wincing and rubbing his stump when they start complaining. The woman jabs her husband, partner, whatever. "Let's go, Warren. We're not going to get anything from this guy. "We have a lawyer on retainer."

Bucky gives them a sharp grin. "How much blood has _he_ shed for his clients?" They leave, sputtering in outrage. They nearly bowl Steve over as he's on his way in carrying a tray of coffee cups and a bag of something that smells like chocolate and cinnamon. Running into Steve is like running into a brick wall, and he doesn't spill a drop of coffee as they push past. 

"Wow, what did you say to them?"

"Told 'em that in a court of law, their blood-sucking lawyer wouldn't stand a chance against a sympathy vote. What a pair of self-entitled morons."

"I should have warned you about some of the new emigres to Brooklyn. We're now 'cool' and 'trendy.'"

"I guess a Veteran's center is neither," Bucky gives Steve a wry smile. "Lucky for you that coffee shops are both."

"Not upscale enough," Steve says. "They want more than I can offer. And I'm not charging four bucks for a cup of coffee, ever. Particularly not for you guys."

Bucky finds Steve's indignation adorable. He knows he's blushing and tries to hide it. "Umm, speaking of coffee — dare I hope one of those is for me?"

Steve takes one out of the holder. He opens the bag and takes out a neatly wrapped slice of coffee cake. "It's chocolate/cinnamon." He blushes to match Bucky; those absurd eyelashes shielding his eyes. 

They both start unwrapping it, their fingers brushing intimately, but neither of them pulls away from the other. Bucky's eyes meet Steve's and they can't seem to look away. Just then, Sam emerges from the back office. "Do I smell coffee?" And they break apart like they were touching a hot stove.

"Yeah," Steve manages.

"And coffee cake," Bucky adds. Sam is looking at them oddly. 

"I feel like I interrupted a moment."

Bucky nearly chokes on the sip of coffee he had taken. "Yeah, you interrupted a moment between me and my chocolate/cinnamon coffee cake, so take yours and leave mine alone."

"Yeah. Sorry about that." Sam snorts. He hitches a hip on the counter. "So, how's it going'?"

Bucky tells him about Dugan and the irate couple. Sam loves the Dugan story and rolls his eyes at the whiners. "They the same people who complain about Java Joe's?"

"Amazing, isn't it. They're afraid some vet with PTSD is gonna shoot up the neighborhood or something."

"They said they have a lawyer," Bucky adds. 

"You think we don't?" Sam laughs. "Our primary benefactor is Tony Stark. He's got more legal power at his fingertips than those asses ever dreamed of."

For the second time, Bucky nearly chokes. "Tony Stark?"

"Under the radar, please. I told him I didn't want the guys who come here put under a media microscope. Stark attracts the media like a magnet, so he agreed. But, yeah. He paid for this place, paid for the renovations, but I want to do the work ourselves. Help teach some skills to guys interested in the trades."

Bucky and Steve smile at each other, gently amused by Sam's enthusiasm. Sam rambles on about his plans for a few minutes, then is called away. Well, I've got to get back."

"Who's been watching the shop?"

"Local girl. Kate Bishop. She's good with the register and customers, but I always have to make sure the urns are all full because she's a disaster with brewing." He grins, quick and happy, as he  
gathers up the papers and cups and reaches over the counter to pitch them into a wastebasket. 

Bucky, because he's the kind of guy whose heart has always ruled over his head, leans in and kisses Steve on the cheek. "Thanks for the coffee."

Steve, instead of backing away like Bucky anticipates, straightens slowly, still leaning on the counter. He lifts his chin and smiles. "What do I get for the coffee cake?"

Bucky's heart does a funny little thump in his chest. He slides a hand behind Steve's neck, feels the brush of the short, thick hair against his palm, and pulls Steve closer for a kiss. Steve's lips are cool and soft and _smiling_ against Bucky's. 

"I was wondering when you'd get around to that," Steve whispers.

"Didn't know you wanted me to," Bucky sighs. 

"I think we've established that we need to do this more often."

Bucky could kiss Steve all day, but the phone rings, and Steve gives him one last quick kiss before he waves and heads back to Java Joe's.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

When the center finally closes, and Sam locks up, Bucky is practically bouncing from foot to foot. Sam finally looks at him in mock irritation. "You know you're not exactly subtle, right?"

"What?"

"Ever since Steve left, you've been like a cat walking on violin strings."

"You're ridiculous," Bucky says. "I'm fine."

"Didn't say you weren't." He pauses on the stoop and follows the line of Bucky's gaze to Java Joe's. "Are you ready for this? I mean Steve is a great guy with a heart as big as the world, but he has his own issues that might not play well with yours."

"I'm better," Bucky protests. "Or getting there," he admits. "I'll be careful. But right now, I just want to have something normal, you know?"

Sam nods, understanding. "I want you to have that. I want Steve to have that. Still, take it easy. I don't want to see either of you hurt."

"It was two kisses, Sam. I'm not going to jump the guy's bones, and Steve doesn't seem to be the kind to rush into things, either."

"Okay, buddy. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Afternoon shift?"

"Have fun with the hipsters in the morning, and bring me coffee, Barnes. That's why I hired you."

Bucky laughs and waves goodbye to Sam as he heads towards the subway.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Steve is hunched over the counter, frowning as he works a calculator, totaling the day's receipts. Bucky closes and locks the door. "Do you _like_ living dangerously?" he asks. Steve nearly jumps out of his skin. 

"Do you like scaring the crap out of me?" Steve argues back, and Bucky laughs. 

"You were a million miles away. What's going on?" He hitches himself up on a stool. 

"This …" Steve runs a distracted hand through his hair. "Why don't my receipts balance with the total on the register? I'm going to be bankrupt before I know it at this rate!"

He sounds discouraged, tired. Bucky considers. "You have a computer, right?"

"Yeah, in the back room."

"Do you have a spreadsheet on it?"

"I have one for doing bulk orders."

"Not one for the banking and accounting?"

"Quick Books?"

"That'll do. C'mon, you computer-phobic hipster. Let's get this set up so it makes sense."

"How do you know this shit?"

"My dad had a garage. I worked for him over the summers doing his bookkeeping."

Steve is looking at him like he's some sort of hero. "You're amazing."

Bucky shakes his head. "I'm not, but let's see if my crap-for-brains remembers enough to set you up. You're life, my friend, is about to become much better." He moves from the stool, to the counter and swings his legs around so that they bracket Steve's. 

Steve braces himself on the counter, leaning forward. "I don't know. It's already pretty spectacular." He kisses Bucky, and this time it's not the quick brush of lips, it's a full on, tongue-teasing, and melting into each other kiss that leaves them both breathless, and Bucky wondering how on earth can he possibly remember how to do accounting when all he can think of is Steve's gorgeous mouth on his?

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

It's just Bucky's luck that after nearly a month without nightmares, he has one that night. He dreams he's being held down while a faceless surgeon amputates his arm without anesthesia. He's screaming his throat raw when Steve bursts into the apartment. "Bucky!"

He doesn't come closer, which is probably a good thing, but he turns on a light and speaks softly to Bucky, his voice finally penetrating the fog of panic. Bucky shoves his hair off his forehead. "Water?" he croaks, hoarse from shouting.

"Sure." 

Steve fills a glass and hands it to Bucky. He drinks it down and rubs his eyes. "Thanks." Then a moment later, when his brain is firmly in the present, he asks, "Did I leave the door unlocked?"

Steve looks sheepish as he holds up a keychain. "Landlord. Remember?"

"Yeah." Bucky stands up and stumbles a little before he regains his equilibrium. He goes into the bathroom, splashes cool water on his face and takes a migraine pill. He can't risk a debilitating headache today. He looks pale and haunted. He combs his hair and to his surprise, Steve is still standing in the middle of the room. 

"You're okay?"

"I'm fine … " Steve's expression clearly calls him out on that lie. "I'm good for the night. Thanks, Steve."

"Umm, does this happen often?"

"You gonna raise my rent if it does?"

"I — I … Listen, I have nightmares, too. I'm not judging you."

Bucky draws a breath. "It hasn't happened for a while. Too many new stresses, I guess."

"Sorry."

"For?"

"Stresses?" Like it's his fault. 

Bucky takes a good look at Steve. He's wearing plaid sleep pants and a t-shirt with the logo of a local gym. His hair is tousled, and his stubble is definitely growing. Bucky smiles and walks over to him. Steve opens his arms and tilts his head. "Need a hug?"

Bucky tries to laugh, but Steve doesn't give him a chance before he is engulfed by those strong arms. Normally, he'd be fighting his way out of that closed personal space, but Steve is so earnest, so comforting, and it feels so good to be held like that. 

"You know," he says, his words muffled against Steve's shoulder, "Sam is worried about us."

"Sam worries too much," Steve says. "Though this _is_ a little irregular."

"What? Two guys who just met, hugging each other in the middle of the night?" Bucky can't suppress his laugh, "Yeah, maybe just a little irregular." 

"But not unheard of?"

Bucky pulls back so he can look at Steve. "Obviously not." The last is punctuated by a yawn. "What time is it?"

"Two-thirty. Time to grab a few hours of sleep yet. It's not a baking day." Steve releases Bucky. "You ready to go back to bed?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Steve. Sorry I woke you up."

Steve smiles and shrugs. "Not a problem." He tightens his embrace for a moment. "See you in a few hours?"

"Just like in the army. Up at ass o'clock, sir." Bucky mockingly salutes and Steve backs out the door, like he's reluctant to lose sight of Bucky. And truth be told, Bucky feels bereft when Steve closes the door. But he's tired, and his bed looks tempting again. He re-arranges the twisted sheets, fluffs up his pillow, and is deep in a dreamless sleep before he can think about it.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky makes mistakes. He burns his first roast, manages to break, not one, but three cups, and can't foam milk to save his soul. On the upside, he makes Steve laugh when he finally masters the art of foaming and gives a triumphant fist pump, "Yes!" Seeing Steve laugh is worth everything; it's like sunshine and blue sky, a trite analogy which is entirely embarrassing to Bucky, but still rings true. 

When his shift is over, Steve brings him a latte with a thumbs-up drawn in the foam, which make Bucky laugh. It's been a long time since he's actually felt happy, and for a moment, the sensation is so disorienting that he has to hold on to the counter to steady himself. Steve is instantly at his side. 

"Hey, are you okay? I made you work too hard, didn't I? I'm sorry! You should have said something … " Steve is babbling an apology and looks so damn guilty that Bucky grabs his shoulder.

"No, no. It's fine. It's just that … It's nothing. I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Bucky takes a sip of coffee. "Really, I'm fine."

Steve looks doubtful but he steps back. "You tell me if you're not."

"You mean I'm not fired?" He tilts a grin at Steve.

Steve grins back. "Well, after you break twelve cups, you have to buy me more."

"That should take about three more days."

"Nah, at least a week."

"Anybody tell you you're kind of a punk?"

"Anybody tell _you_ that you're kind of a jerk?"

And that's all it takes to make Bucky fall in love with they guy who owns the coffee shop. He just doesn't know if Steve sees him as anything more than a good friend who he once kissed. He can only take one day at a time right now. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Three Months Later

Bucky opens the door of the meeting room at the Brooklyn Veterans Center. He's wearing a black and gray tweed coat over a burgundy henley and black slacks. His left sleeve is still pinned up. His hair is neatly tied back with a black band. He steps inside. There are five young men and women seated there, all are damaged, all are missing limbs. All of them look like they want to bolt. Bucky takes a deep breath.

"Umm, hi. My name is James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant. United States Army. Like you, I am an amputee, and like you, I have to function in a world that isn't made for people like us. You have options. You can go for a prosthetic, and we can help you find the right program for you. Or you can choose to live your life as you are — we can help you with that, too. I'm here to tell you whatever you decide, it's okay. You're not less of a person because you've been changed by war. We are all changed by war. But you're still the same person in your heart that you have always been."

He pauses, smiles. "So, if you want to tell your story, we're all here to listen."

An hour later, feeling like he's been back to the war himself, he closes the door, locks it, and turns around to find Steve leaning on the reception desk. There's a cup of coffee in his hand and a smile on his face when he sees Bucky. 

Bucky reaches for the cup with a grabby hand. "You're a lifesaver!" The coffee smells like cinnamon and vanilla. Bucky inhales it happily. "New blend?"

"Yeah, this guy I know roasted it up last night."

Bucky blushes a bit. He's discovered that while he might not be very good at pouring coffee or foaming milk, he does have a talent for roasting and flavors. Java Joe's is flourishing, thanks to the veterans at the center and its growing reputation for unique blends and wonderful baked goods. Steve is more relaxed now, having hired on two new baristas, giving him time to pursue his passion for baking. Bucky is still doing the bookkeeping, which he finds less of a chore -- maybe because Steve sits close to him while he enters the figures. 

Steve. Yeah. Well … Bucky still isn't sure where that's going. Maybe they're both too cautious; too aware of their pasts and wary of the future. Maybe Steve is waiting for Bucky to get his shit together. Bucky still loves him, will probably always love him, and hasn't a clue as to what to do next. 

"Earth to Buck," Steve says quietly. "What planet are you on?"

"A galaxy far, far away," Bucky says. His heart hurts it's beating so hard. "Can we go home?"

"Sure. You okay?" Steve puts a concerned arm across Bucky's shoulders, and damn, Bucky can't help leaning into his warm solidity. 

"Yeah. Just kind of … overwhelmed and tired."

"Let me take care of you."

"You already got me coffee." Buck can hear the tremor in his voice and wonders if Steve can hear it, too."

"Not the same thing." He tugs gently at Bucky's arm. "C'mon."

They wind up in Steve's place. Bucky has been there so often that it feels more like home than his tiny studio. Steve steers him towards the couch and sits, drawing Bucky down next to him. They're close, but only their shoulders are touching. Steve looks at him, his eyes serious, but warm. "What's going on, Buck?"

"You tell me. Two days after we met, we were kissing. Then … " his voice falters. "Listen, if I'm not your type, that's okay. But I can't stay here mooching off your hospitality. I know I'm not making enough to afford this place for what you could could get from somebody else —"

Steve makes an odd, hurt sound before he manages to say, "Stop. Just don't. I deserve a say in this, right?"

"Yeah, it's kind of your call."

Stave takes a breath. "Okay. First of all, God, Buck. You are so much my type it scares me. But things were going way too fast. I've never fallen for somebody like that. I had to back off for both of our sakes, right?"

Bucky nods. His throat aches. "I thought … I thought —" He shakes his head. "I thought you didn't want me. I'm kind of a mess."

"You're not! You're amazing. Look at where you are, after coming from _nothing_. "

"I owe you and Sam —"

"You don't owe us." Steve shakes his head. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. Because of you, Java Joe's is thriving. I was foundering until you took over the books, and the things you do for coffee beans is kind of an aphrodisiac."

Bucky has to laugh, because Steve is so earnest and so sexy, and so … everything. "I love you," Bucky blurts out and then just wants to hide his face in the couch — or Steve's shoulder.

Steve takes that decision out of his hands when he pulls Bucky into a kiss that leaves him dizzy. Steve tastes like coffee, like vanilla and sugar and his own sweetness. Bucky's pretty sure he won't be able to live without having that sweetness for the rest of his life. 

Steve presses him into the cushions. His body is warm and hard and perfect beneath Bucky's hand. "I wish, I wish I had two arms to hold you," he whispers when he's able to talk.

"You're perfect," Steve's voice against his throat sends a shiver down Bucky's spine. Nobody, not even Bucky himself, has ever in his life told him he was perfect. His first instinct is to make a wisecrack, but then he sees the the truth and, God help the fool, the love, in Steve's eyes and he can't say a word. 

They kiss again. Bucky loses himself and time. He's vaguely aware that he's getting hard, and that Steve's erection is pressing into his groin, and that Steve is working on the zipper of his fly. His hard, warm hand wraps around Bucky's cock, and Bucky hears his own moan of arousal. Evidently, Steve does, too. He kisses his way down Bucky's neck, rucks up his shirt to nuzzle his abs and find his way to take Bucky into his mouth. 

_Heaven._ Just … Bucky's brain shorts out as Steve takes him deeper. When the pulses of pleasure finally abate, Bucky sucks Steve off, breathing in his scent, swallowing his sweetness and salt. 

They lie there, clothes in disarray, twined in each other until the last rays of the setting sun touch them with fading light before slipping below the Brooklyn skyline. Steve is so warm, and Bucky never wants to move, but eventually Steve sighs. "We have to roast coffee," he says. 

Bucky chuckles. "That's the weirdest thing anybody has ever said to me post-coital." 

"Get used to it. You'll probably be hearing it for the rest of your life." Steve gives his lower lip a final, lingering nip. "I love you."

"'Til the end of the line," Bucky promises with his heart. He sits up slowly, stretching out his shoulders and giving a sigh of contentment when Steve massages the tension from his muscles. He could melt, but he finds the strength to say, "Okay, Java Joe. Let's make something beautiful."

Steve's smile is everything; all the stupid cliches about sunshine, rainbows, unicorns and cinnamon rolls Bucky can think of. He never thought he'd love anybody, never thought he'd be loved in return. His life has been measured out in coffee spoons, but now the world is spread before him. 

**The End**


End file.
